And Hearts Turn to Ice
by SamuraiSal1
Summary: America wishes more than anything else to be viewed by England as an equal. Even in a relationship, it seems like England has some habits that he can't quite shake, and it might turn out to be more heartache than America can take. But they've never really had a fully functional relationship, anyways, have they? USUKUS; Rated T for descriptive depression and some mania.


It was cold. Not the type of cold that almost seems romantic—the cold that just leaves your breath visible, barely, and makes you bundle up a bit to keep the cold at bay, the cold that makes hot cocoa inevitable and gives lovers an excuse to hold hands.

No—this was the cold that would make you shiver involuntary for about twenty minutes before you started to go numb all over, the type of cold that made it hurt to breathe. The type of cold that only appears in the dead of winter at night, when the sun isn't shining and you're likely to trip over yourself.

Given that America already despised the cold, it was hardly a surprise that he was in a poor mood, especially as he had to walk in it, for nearly three miles. His car had broken down from the cold, and even though it wasn't particularly far, it was still dangerous to be out so late in such terrible weather, especially when he was alone, without his cell phone.

About halfway, there was a nagging voice at the base of his skull that whispered, so sweetly, that he should take a break. The snow looked so soft, after all; it would make a lovely bed. He managed to keep it at bay for five minutes, fifteen, nearly an hour, but with the wind roaring in his face and the uneven road covered in show tripping him at every opportunity, it was hardly surprising when he finally, finally gave in.

But, a minute passed, then two. Then five and more and more, and it seemed so useless to get up, when he could rest for just a bit longer. The cold wouldn't kill him, after all—he was still a nation. And it would give him a peaceful break from everything going on in his country. The debt, the unhappy citizens, the conflicts between parties would all disappear for a few hours, maybe even days, before someone finally found him.

A face appeared, blurry, in the snow. For a moment, America honestly thought it was real. He reached out to touch it, but it vanished when his fingers had almost grasped it. And of course it wasn't real, he realized then, because if it was England, it wouldn't disappear, would it?

His mind started to go a bit foggy, wondering for a moment if England would come back. But he wouldn't, naturally—he'd never been there in the first place.

That felt like a lie, though. After all, England had always been there for him, always, and it was always the same. He treated America like a child, like his child, even though colonial America was practically a different entity than the nation he was today. And England just couldn't or wouldn't see that, would still leave him or worse, pity him and coddle him if he knew his insecurities, would still treat him like a child, like a worthless kid who could be used only for resources, not appreciated and valued and loved—

No, he was talking about the illusion-England, not the real one. At least the illusion would probably treat him like a human being, not a memory.

America felt his train of thought grow progressively more random, his thoughts slipping from topic to topic, yet still trying to blend it. There was the slow overtaking of sleep and then, nothing.

* * *

America awoke several hours later to something slapping his face. His head jerked from side to side from the force, but he didn't feel much pain, it was more the motion that had woken him.

Slowly, slowly, all of his senses came back, with scent being the first to reappear in full. He wished it hadn't; the sharp smell of vomit making him want to puke, himself. Next was taste, and judging by the taste on his tongue, he'd been the one to puke first. Hearing came back slowly, but finally it was enough that he could understand what the person slapping his cheeks was saying.

"—idiot, what were you thinking, you have hypothermia at best, you should have brought your cell phone! You arse! Even if your car broke down, you should have at least gone on without stopping!"

America distantly recognized the voice as England's. He blinked open his eyes. It was nothing more than a too-bright, too-sharp explosion of color, but finally things began to go back to their default; he was actually rather relieved when everything went blurry. It meant his eyesight was as good as it would get, finally.

His sense of touch, though, seemed to be delayed. It took him a moment to realize that it was because he was still partially frozen.

"'Ngla'd?" America finally asked, more croaked than spoke.

England finally stopped slapping him. "Finally awake, are you?" he asked. There was an underlying tone of fury, though, and America didn't dare answer him. "Do you know how worried I was?!"

America let out a slow, shaky exhale. It was right about then that he felt the burning pain that always came when he warmed up after freezing. There was a fire right next to him, too, that sped the process up, making it hurt worse than it really had to.

The English nation grit his teeth. "Answer me."

"I f'rgot my phone and my car br'ke down," America said quietly, voice still cracking, still shaking. He wanted nothing more than to just curl up and pass out while he thawed out. "'s not my fault."

By then, his nerves and core temperature had finally raised, and it only served to hurt him more. Idly, he wondered if it wouldn't just be better to give into sleep again, and deal with England later…

England seemed to realize what he was thinking about, and yanked him into a sitting position. He whispered furiously into the other nation's ear, "Don't you dare fall out again. You owe me an explanation, and I want it _now_."

America shivered, eyes widening at the threat. "England, you're scaring me."

"How do you think I felt, waiting at home for hours when you said you'd only be gone for half of one?" England snapped. "You're just lucky that the wind slowed enough that I could find you. You couldn't have held on for another mile?!"

"'s cold. Didn't have another option," America mumbled, but the guilt in his voice betrayed him.

"You should have held on," England growled. "You should have kept walking until you made it here, safely."

"But I didn't!" America said, voice cracking at the last word. "I couldn't help it, it's _cold_, and-and what's done is done! So just lay off, will you?"

"Don't talk to me like that," England said threateningly, grabbing hold of America's shirt and pulling the other nation ever-so-slightly towards him.

"Then don't talk down to me," America snapped.

There was a short pause, the fire seeming to crack louder to fill the silence. Finally, England released the American nation and stood, scowl not quite leaving his face. "Go to sleep, idiot. We'll talk in the morning." And then he walked away.

America stared after him, watching his figure grow blurrier and blurrier as he walked away, and not just because he was nearsighted. But he didn't say anything, hardly even moved except to pull the blankets up to his chin and will the pain to go away. It didn't work.

* * *

When the sun rose, it was hidden behind thick clouds and heavy snowfall. Thus America didn't quite understand what was going on when England walked in and put a hand on his forehead, effectively waking him. He would have protested, but his limbs felt heavy and his head felt foggy in a way that probably had something to do with the way England swore when he took America's temperature.

"'m I sick…?" America asked, his voice slightly better, as his throat had defrosted.

"You're just an idiot," England said, sounding more tired than anything else. "Next time don't bother going to the store when it's twenty below."

"It was warmer than that when I left," America argued, voice sounding weak even to his own ears. "Probably just zero…"

"I was talking about twenty below in Celsius." England sighed. A distant look came over his features, though, and he seemed only vaguely interested. America wished his attention hadn't faded so quickly.

Couldn't he see that all America wanted was some honest attention? Some affection that wasn't just brushed off as heat of the moment?

"Don't leave," America said, not realizing he'd spoken until England looked back to him, curious.

"I didn't make any motion to," he said, smiling a little. "But if it means that much to you, I'll stay, I suppose. It wouldn't hurt anything—"

"I meant…" America trailed off, not sure whether he had the energy or the skill to say what he wanted. "I meant that I wanted you to stay with me. With the me now."

England stared at him, eyes narrowed. "I'm afraid I don't quite understand what you mean."

The American nation didn't respond, though, choosing only to turn on his side, facing away from the other. For the first time in what felt like forever, he wished England would leave, if only to have those eyes stop staring at him and seeing something completely different.

Five minutes passed, and finally England left the room.

America hardly noticed when he fell asleep again.

* * *

A fire raged somewhere in the center of the room America was sitting in. It was hot and dangerous and seemed to spread and wane based on whether or not he continued to move around. But even though it burned so hot, it didn't give off any light, aside from a dull red glow.

America couldn't see the other side of the room. Somehow, though, he knew he had to get to it. The fire wouldn't let him—it burnt his face and his hands and his arms but mostly his insides.

He seemed to be breathing smoke; it was hard to breathe, and maybe that's why he felt so overheated. If the smoke could get inside his lungs, surely the fire could, too?

He crawled further towards the other side of the room, with the fire only getting hotter all the while.

Distantly, he heard someone calling from behind him. It sounded like his name, but the word was different, somehow. It didn't make sense.

The walls shifted and suddenly Alfred was being tossed backwards into the fire, back towards the voice that had called his name (but not his name), and he didn't realize he'd been dreaming until his eyes snapped open.

When America tried to sit forward, though, his eyes rolled to the back of his head and suddenly he was back in the fire.

* * *

"You look better," England said, his voice sounding muffled, like he was underwater. Or maybe it was America that was underwater—he couldn't tell, not until his head broke the surface of the icy cold around him. He wanted to shout, to complain that he'd frozen only yesterday, so there was no need to freeze him again, but England shushed him with an even colder cloth on his forehead. "You keep scaring me, America. You should stop."

And somewhere, America agreed—he should stop, stop everything, though. Not just stop scaring people. He should stop disappointing them and ruining them and dragging them down every time he fell, too. He really should.

But all he said was, "I'm tired."

England just sighed. "Don't fall back asleep. You've already been out for a few days. You'll go comatose if you keep doing this."

"I wish," America said, closing his eyes.

There was a pause, then the sensation of something slapping him across the face, hard. When America opened his eyes—and he opened them quickly—England was glaring at him with a hand raised.

"Don't say things like that," he said, the threatening tone from before back in full force.

"I don't want to stay, though." America half-closed his eyes, peering up at the other nation through his lashes. "I wish I could just… disappear." And he wasn't sure if it was the fever or the delirium or the notion itself, but he felt slightly hysteric. A nervous giggle burst up from his throat. "Just be gone, forever… Wouldn't that be nice?"

England stared at him for a long while. Finally, he reached forward, yanked America up and most the way out of the water and kissed him.

"What are you doing?" America asked when England finally pulled away. "You don't mean it. You haven't meant it for at least a year."

"Is that what you think?" England asked, quiet and almost subdued.

"It's easy to tell when someone doesn't love you anymore," America said almost dreamily, another bout of nervous laughter threatening to overtake him yet again. "See? You don't. And I was right all along." He paused, vision blurring dangerously. "But it hurts a lot more that I never stopped, but you did. Why did you stop, England?"

"I didn't—" England tried to explain, tried to interrupt, but America didn't let him.

"It's alright, it's alright," America said, shushing the other nation gently. "I'll be fine. You jus' have to trust me, is all. Just trust me… I'll figure out how to make you love me again, don't worry."

England gave him a long, almost painful look. "You don't know what you're saying," he whispered, tilting America's chin up, just a bit higher so that he could get an honest look into the other nation's eyes. "You don't—God, you don't know what you're saying, America. I never stopped loving you. Not last year, not the year before. Not since we've been together." He swallowed, trying to will down the lump that was rising in his throat. "I've never—I've never looked at anyone else for a hundred years, America. Don't accuse me of not loving you!"

"But it's not about loving someone else," America said gently, the dreamy quality back in his voice. "If you don't love me…"

"But I do! I do, I do, I _do_," England insisted, fighting back the urge to shake the other nation. "You need to stop thinking like that, love. Please. I've never stopped loving you. Never."

America just gave him a small smile—one that said he still didn't believe him. But that was all right—he didn't have enough time left to be convinced. He closed his eyes and fell back into unconsciousness, oblivious to the world he was leaving behind.

* * *

America didn't remember the conversation when he woke up again, but England did. His overly serious expression made certain of that.

"What're you looking at me like that for?" America asked, daring to crack an eye open, braving the light. "What'd I do this time?"

England sat down beside him and gently stroked America's hair, threading his fingers through again and again. "I love you," he finally whispered. "I hope you know that."

America's smile was eerily familiar; he didn't believe quite yet. But that was all right. He could live without love for at least another few years. "Love you too."

* * *

"I don't know why he's still so sick," America heard England say over the phone one day. "Yes, I've tried everything. He was only gone for a few hours. It couldn't have done that much damage!" There was a slight pause, and finally England sighed. "I know. I know. He's… he's mentioned it a few times in his delirium. Fortunately his fever's been out of the danger zone for a few days, so he hasn't slipped away again, but…" England ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know what to do. He isn't improving. And that means that the only thing that's keeping him down is… is…"

England finally glanced over in America's condition and found the other nation staring at him. So he muttered a quick, "I have to go," and hung up.

"How are you doing, love?" England asked, eyes full of concern.

"Fine," America answered, trying to subtly convince the other that he'd only been awake for a few moments. "Who were you talking to?"

"Canada," England said with a small smile. "He misses you, you know. When was the last time you spoke with him?"

"Maybe a month." America yawned. "Maybe more."

"He says it's been at least three," England gently corrected, placing a hand on the other nation's shoulder. There was a slight pause and then, "Is there… anything you'd like to tell me?"

_I want you to stop seeing someone else when you look at me_, America wanted to say. _I want you to stop looking guilty when you take care of me like this. I want you to love me for who I am now, not who I was then. I want your undivided attention. All of it._

"Nothing comes to mind," America said, smiling so sickly-sweet that England had to fight back the urge to throw up.

"Alright then, love." England pressed a gentle kiss to the other nation's hair. "But don't hesitate to tell me if you think of anything."

America nodded. He paused, though, a few moments in. "May I walk around for a bit?"

The English nation hesitated, but finally agreed. "…Sure, love. Whatever you'd like."

Something about the response set America on edge—_That was the same response he'd always give me, has nothing changed? What am I to him?—_but he couldn't pinpoint what. It made him feel a bit sick, and when he took England's hand so he could stand, he leaned more heavily on the other than nation than he would have otherwise.

"All right there?" England asked, so cautiously, so concerned. America nodded, smiling just as brightly as he always had. It convinced neither of them.

* * *

"You should eat something," England said shortly after they'd finished their impromptu walk. "I don't care if it's those ridiculous hamburgers again—anything is better than nothing, right now."

America looked up at him, eyes shining with something that maybe he could think of as hope, in another life. "Hamburgers are awesome. You're just jealous."

It's not as genuine as England would like it, but it's progress—even if he still doesn't know why America reacted so enthusiastically to that statement. He writes a mental note to himself to continue speaking like that, even if in his heart he feels guilty.

One step forward.

* * *

It isn't a crisis and neither of them are heroes or soldiers or policemen, really. But they're both the only thing that the other would die for. Neither seems to understand that, so when England sighs and says that, if he could take whatever was distressing him away, he would, America laughs it off.

The next day, America is unresponsive.

Two steps back.

* * *

"I don't know what to do," England says, on the line with Canada again. "He's… He got better for a day or two, and then everything went in reverse."

"What happened the day he started to get better?" Canada asks, sounding worried.

England recites the only notable moment he can remember—a simple insult, like they'd been doing for years. Canada sounds intrigued.

It's all in the present tense because America's seen this before. Everything has replayed thrice over by now; he's just an audience member and the stage has been set.

So when England messes up his lines, it grabs America's attention.

"Why does he seem to like it when I insult him?" England asked, rubbing the heel of his hand into his forehead, apparently trying to squash the headache blooming just below his skull. "Does he…?"

There was a _"No!"_ so loud from the ear of the phone that America heard it from his place on the bed. It made England wince and pull the phone away.

"Alright, alright, I get it," England grumbled. "But—Even if that's the reason, I still don't know why."

America could have guessed the reply: _"Just do it until he trusts you enough to tell you why." _

Because, even if they deviated from the script, it was still the same play. America turned over on his side and went back to sleep.

* * *

"Get up," England commanded, what must have been days after the last phone call. America squawked and dove after them—probably the fastest reflexes he'd had since falling ill in the first place—but it was no good. England held them over his head like some sort of trophy. "I knew you had it in you," he faux-teased. "Now get up. I made breakfast."

America scrunched up his nose in obvious distaste. "Uh, I'll pass, thanks."

"Wanker," England dismissed. "I already made it. It'll go to waste if you don't have some."

There was a pause, and finally America gave in. "Alright, but no complaints if I'm on the sick bed puking my guts out for the rest of the day because of your cooking."

England gave him a long look, but this time there was no pity in his eyes. He smirked, instead, and said, "Please, love. You have a bloody iron stomach. Why else would you have survived your childhood?" He scratched his chin, though, and added, "Of course, if you've gone soft now, I suppose all that training's gone to waste, eh?"

And suddenly, everything felt all right in the world.

* * *

A week passed. America didn't fall ill again, and though England was obviously concerned that he would, and wondered about why everything had happened in the first place, he didn't pry. Though, naturally, he did express his concerns over the phone—this time to someone other than Canada. America distantly recognized the voice, but couldn't place it.

"I hope things won't fall back into what they were before…" England finally said, towards the close of the call.

America wished it, too, though his definition of things past were slightly different.

* * *

A ridiculous (_stupid, silly, unnecessary_) argument broke out nearly a month later.

"Don't treat me like a kid! I'm different! You need to just see me as I am _now_ and stop living in the past!" America had finally shouted, voice breaking half-way through his statement. England wouldn't have cared, really—he was still furious about whatever it was they were fighting about now, though he couldn't really remember anymore—except that America suddenly stopped, putting a hand over his mouth as if he couldn't believe what he'd just said.

The tears came next, and it seemed like they wouldn't stop. England had realized nearly a minute into the other nation's sobs that he was supposed to be holding him, supposed to be getting America to calm down. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out why America was so upset, but he'd be damned if he'd let something terrible happen again.

"What's the matter?" England finally asked, pushing America away enough to look the other in the eye.

America scrubbed at his eyes for a moment. "It's—It's nothing. Really."

"Right, like I'm really supposed to believe that," England said with a snort. "Tell me."

"I can't say," America finally mumbled. "I've tried a million times before and I just… I _can't_."

England raised an incredulous eyebrow, giving America his trademarked 'you've got to be joking' look. "Says the man who decided on a whim to go to the moon one day, and then proceeded to do just that a hundred years later. I don't think there's _anything_ you can't do, love. Much less something as silly as telling me something that's been bothering you."

America blinked up at him, tears finally stopping. He took a deep breath, slowly, slowly calming himself before he managed to work up the courage.

And then, it all came out at once, so fast he could have choked.

"You—You still see me as a kid. When you look at me, you don't see me, you see the guy that left you, and… and when you say you love me, it doesn't… It doesn't mean the same thing as it does for me. You treated me like a kid every single time I got sick or hurt or something, and I don't—I can't live like that. I love you with all my heart, but I've grown up, England," America said, voice breaking multiple times. "I've grown up and I want you to see that. I want you to see that, and I don't know how to make you. I wish I didn't have to _make_ you see that! You... you just can't love me if you do that. It's impossible, because love doesn't work like that. Not the type we're supposed to have.

"And when you talk to me, you either talk down to me like you think you still own me, and you don't, or you just do whatever I want. Why the hell do you think I always argued with you, huh?" he more demanded than asked. "I don't want you to just blindly agree with me—I don't want you to just give me things. I want you to—I want you to respect me enough to fight me. And even when you were arguing with me, the—the night you found me and thawed me out or whatever? Even when you yelled at me, it was like you were still just yelling at me like I was a pet that had screwed up, and I want to be more than that to you, England. That's why… That's why I broke away in the first place."

America let out a deep breath, recovering from years and years—centuries and years—of pent-up frustration. Finally, he looked back up, and the moment he looked into England's eyes, he knew he'd finally made his point.

When England kissed him next, there was no denying that things had finally, finally been mended. This time for good.

* * *

Nearly a year passed, cycling through spring, summer and autumn, before finally cycling back to winter.

When it started to get cold enough for them to see their breath against the night sky, it was England's cue to take his lover's hand and kiss him beneath the stars.

Because before the frost would set in and before the trees would be filled with snow, he wanted to make some memories that would last, memories that would keep both America and himself warm on even the coldest days of the year.

-End.

* * *

Pardon me for how dark most of this story is. Yes, it has a happy ending, but that probably doesn't excuse the general angst of the fic. For that I apologize. But, well, I needed something a little darker to balance out the fics that I'll probably be doing in the near future.

SamSal out, and may your winters be happier than these guys', eh?


End file.
